June 1, 2005
Last weekend I came home from a visit with my parents carrying every childrens' record I had ever listened to as a boy. They had them stored in their basement--an endless treasure trove of childhood memories enveloped in a moist, mildewed scent--and I had been meaning to pick them up for weeks now.
Years ago I picked up a Japanese portable record player, and when we put together Roosevelt's room we included the blue plastic phonograph, as much for the style as for the music, which, up until yesterday, consisted of two records I had bought for 25 cents from a yard sale three weeks ago.
But on Sunday, I lugged home 20 pounds of records, and today he and I danced around the room--him excited to be in his father's arms, me excited to share these corny, simple songs that brought me so much joy.
And, as Bob from Sesame Street and his chorus of children warbled their way through "Muscrat Love" and Roosevelt and I whirled and twirled across his tiny room, everything felt so effortless and simple, like love is supposed to when it's right.